


Tipping the balance

by flowerdeluce



Category: Line of Duty
Genre: Arguing, Bisexual Steve, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 10:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: When the case against DCI Huntley becomes harder to prove, tensions run high at AC-12. Sooner or later, they'll erupt.Set during series four, episode three.





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> I used to be all about Ted and Steve cuddling. Apparently, it was only a matter of time before I wanted them banging. I've battled with myself for weeks over whether I should upload this but ended up thinking, what the hell - there might be at least one other person out there who likes this pairing. If you do, this story is for you! 
> 
> As with my previous fic, I wrote most of this prior to discovering Steve had a new flat in series four. Forgive me for putting him in his old gaff!

“I haven’t put my big un-PC foot in it, have I?” Hastings had asked, a few years back.

He hadn’t, not really, but trying to explain to a man of Superintendent Hastings’ generation that he liked men just as much as women, Steve didn’t deem worth the hassle. It was easier—and often prudent—to play straight for superiors. Nobody would find out he’d bent the truth. He hadn’t planned on staying at AC-12 long at the beginning anyway and, if he did, he wouldn’t entangle himself in romances proving otherwise.

People learn from their mistakes, it’s why first offenders get off with warnings. Thomas was Steve’s first mistake. What they had was exciting initially, but, after a while, it was unnerving for Steve to acknowledge that the guy sat opposite, hunting the same targets and planning the same missions, had him on his back the previous night until he begged him to let him come — it skewed the power balance. Steve was his senior at Counter-terror, but Thomas’ subtle gestures—winks, nudges, almost-kisses at the coffee machine—made it feel the reverse. 

Once Steve broke it off, Thomas’ secretive gestures turned into obvious glares and eye rolls instead, each dripping with contempt. Those weren’t the actions of someone who had your back, who’d take your orders without question. The history between them more than skewed the power balance, it erased it. 

The balance was different with women. Unlike most guys, they coped with being one person in the bedroom and another at work. Steve always found those so-called ‘bossy’ girls attractive, ones who stood their corner, made the first move. Georgia was like that. She excited him enough to break his self-imposed rule, his lesson learned from Thomas: no office romances. Unfortunately, their fling didn’t have time to blossom into anything like that. They’d spent an evening together, gotten drunk, screwed on her couch, grabbed a McDonald’s breakfast, and then... He tried not to think about it these days. 

In all probability, Kate knew Steve batted for both sides — she knew everything, had a better nose than a sniffer dog. He hoped she’d keep the knowledge to herself if she had it. In his experience, people in his profession still looked down on his type, even if they said otherwise. Besides, bringing private lives up at work was unprofessional and Kate didn’t go in for that. Steve never worried she’d bandy his dirty laundry about, not with his awareness of her troubles at home. They were mates. Mates didn’t tittle-tattle — they looked out for each other. 

However, with tensions high in the office even the strongest relationships could hit breaking point.


	2. Chapter two

DCI Huntley’s case had simmered away for weeks. With evidence building slowly, AC-12 was getting warmer to the truth. Then, out of the blue, an unexpected witness identified Michael Farmer and threw them back out into the cold. 

The witness was a plant, Steve was certain, but no one saw it, not even Kate. There had to be a reason for her excuses; she was too sharp to fall for Huntley’s bullshit. 

Once Kate broke the bad news, an impromptu meeting in Hastings’ office came to a head with Steve’s accusations of misconduct having him sent out. Hastings’ glare bore into his back until he closed the door behind him, trying not to slam it despite wanting to. Things wrapped up pretty quickly after that: Kate grabbed her coat and Steve was left at his desk, seething.

Anger had clouded Steve’s judgement in the past, but he knew he was right about this one. Kate had to come out of undercover. In trying too hard to gain Huntley’s trust she’d only made the case harder to fight. If Hastings couldn’t see that, he was an idiot. 

Loading up the tracker—installed on all AC-12 service vehicles since Dot’s betrayal—Steve waited for Kate’s car to move off.

“DS Arnott?” 

Peering over his monitor, Steve saw Hastings standing in his office doorway. 

“In here. Now.” 

“Close the door,” Hastings said as Steve walked in. That was never a good sign and Steve wasn’t in the mood for what was coming. Hastings stood behind his desk rather than sitting at it. He always gave his best bollockings whilst standing; the alternative was far too casual.

“Sir, I—”

“Don’t, even, start,” Hastings warned, pinching the bridge of his nose as though gathering his anger together. Finally, he folded his arms across his stomach and looked at Steve with disappointment. “What was that, eh? Throwing your toys out the pram and acting like you run the place won’t keep you in my good books, son.”

“With respect, sir, the issue here isn’t whether I’m in your good books—” Hastings’ eyebrow arched but Steve ignored it, continuing without catching his breath “—it’s getting Farmer exonerated for crimes he clearly didn’t commit and instead, evidence, questionable evidence, is piling up against him the longer we keep Kate undercover.”

Hastings shook his head. “I thought your wee temper tantrum was over but clearly I should’ve known better.” 

That patronising, borderline passive-aggressive tone had Steve’s fist clenching at his side. Going to counter, again, he decided against it and pressed his fist to his mouth instead.

“Good,” Hastings said, satisfied by Steve’s decision to keep quiet. “I understand your concerns, Steve, but it’s not your place to decide if Kate remains at her post. And I’m not pleased, not pleased at all, that you’d accuse her of conspiring with Huntley. That’s not how undercover works and you know it.”

“But if you’re not watching her—” 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Hastings interrupted, leaning over the desk and meeting Steve’s gaze sharply, “Do you not trust Kate to do her job anymore? Has she not proven herself to be an exemplary officer year after year?” 

“Of course I trust her, but what if she unconsciously prompted the witness, or let ID regs slip this one time, especially when it’s taken her this long to gain Huntley’s trust? Can’t we put that on the table as a possibility?”

“No we cannot!” Hastings spat. 

Steve couldn’t remember the last time the gaffer looked this shaken. He knew he was protective over Kate, but this was ridiculous. 

“Then it’ll happen again, sir,” Steve said quietly, nodding his conviction. “Mark my words. Huntley’ll give Kate the cold shoulder over something and another damning piece of evidence will magically come out the woodwork.” 

“I’ve had just about enough of—”

“If you’re happy to sit there,” Steve raised his voice, pointing at Hastings’ vacant chair, “while Michael Farmer, the poor bastard, spends yet another day in jail, then—” 

The speed with which Hastings charged around his desk broke Steve off mid-flow; he didn’t think he’d ever seen him move so fast. Grabbing Steve’s lapel, he pushed him hard against the wall, a firm finger prodding his chest. Steve expected him to yell, but his calm, whispered tone, laced with a low threat, unnerved him more than any red-faced shouting could.

“You need to rein it in, son, ‘cause I’m sick to me back teeth of your attitude.” He gripped Steve’s jacket tighter, forcing his head forward as the fabric pulled taut at his collar. 

Steve wasn’t sure what silenced him the most: the aggression in Hastings’ eyes, close enough to feel the heat of his breath on his face, or the fact that, hemmed in as he was, there was a flicker of fear in his gut that Hastings might strike him. Whatever it was, he found himself speechless, breath caught at the top of his lungs. 

“All eyes are on us right now, you understand me? If I’m seen putting a lad up for promotion who accuses his colleagues of shady practice and gobs off in front of his gaffer, how do you think that’ll make me look?”

Swallowing tightly, Steve grinned as his courage returned with full force. Meeting Hastings’ gaze, he got the words out. “Is that all you care about? Making yourself look better?” 

Hastings’ eyes narrowed. 

“It must be,” Steve continued, “for you to go this far.” Shaking himself free of Hastings’ grip, he straightened his jacket and nodded a reluctant, “Sir.” 

As he left the office, burning up under his suit, Steve adamantly ignored the fresh weight in his groin. Something about the altercation had excited him, that was evident. Most likely, it was a combination of its physicality, proximity, and his coming out on top. It was out of character for Hastings to be physically aggressive, but Steve knew beneath the boss’ gentle front hid a bitter, unforgiving edge; he’d seen it so rarely the reminder was a shock.

A thought crossed his mind as he approached his desk: the smallest desire, a mere suggestion. What if Hastings had gone further, pinned him to the wall and... oh,  _ fuck _ . 

Slumping onto his chair, Steve pushed his palms to his face and attempted to will his ever-hardening erection away. Why did his body make decisions before his brain sometimes?

The idea, and not even a fully formed one at that, wasn’t an instant shift like switching on a light or changing channels. Hastings arousing him was perfectly plausible, almost familiar in a way, but somehow never given proper consideration until now. Was it sentiment, dormant until triggered, or was he just fooling himself into not being appalled by the lengths his imagination stretched? Either way, considering it wasn’t clever, wasn’t clever at all.

Lifting his head, he noticed the tracker on Kate’s car had loaded. A flashing circle hovered on the map, just outside a pub close to Huntley’s station. Huntley would be there, probably celebrating this newest nail in Farmer’s coffin. Confronting her would be easy and Kate’s presence a bonus. 

It was a snap decision, but what better way was there to distract himself from his own ruffled feathers, than ruffling someone else’s? 


	3. Chapter three

If Steve’s ego had taken a bashing at the office—and he wasn’t sure it had—then his walk-in at The Duke of York erased the memory. His speech, planned on the short drive, was a brilliant outlet for the evening’s frustration. Kate was suitably surprised to see him but not as much as Huntley. Her face was a picture. As expected, she had an answer for everything, but at least she knew AC-12 was on to her.

Stepping out onto the pavement, a figure stood beside the pub’s entrance caught Steve’s attention. To his complete surprise, it was the last person he wanted to see: Superintendent Hastings.

“Sir?”

“You should lock your computer when you’re finished with it, son.”

Steve’s throat dried up. He hadn’t locked it because he’d planned to return to the office and burn the midnight oil until he found something on Huntley. His little escapade would only keep him from his desk for half an hour max. In a moment of stomach-churning mortification, he realised how being followed felt: unpleasant.

“Goodnight, sir.” He made it two steps before Hastings stopped him in his tracks.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

The central locking of Hastings’ car sounded. Lowering his head, Steve realised where this was leading. Hastings planned to tell him off again, only someplace he couldn’t escape from this time. Following orders, he sat in the passenger seat with reluctance and stared at the backend of the car parked in front. He was in even less of a mood for a scalding than earlier, especially after his little victory with Huntley — this had ruined the buzz from that triumph already.

Unexpectedly, Hastings turned the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the road. Prompted to put on his seat belt, Steve reminded him he had his own car as they passed it, en route to headquarters.

Hastings nodded, watching the road. “Don’t want you running off this time.”

“Why don’t you just go the whole hog and handcuff me to the door handle?” Steve’s attempts to lighten the mood usually prompted a light-hearted response from the gaffer, but he wasn’t in the mood for joking now apparently.

“What the hell are you playing at, Steve?” Hastings glanced at him, a regretful expression on his face, before turning back to the road. “You can’t go slinging mud at Kate for this or that, when you’re behaving just as badly. The tracker’s for emergencies only. Using it was a complete breach of DS Fleming’s privacy.”

“You mean like what you’re doing now?”

“Don't come that one with me, son!” Hastings snapped. “You didn’t exactly make it difficult and that’s beside the point — don’t you think Huntley’ll be suspicious now, with you turning up to bully her, knowing exactly where she was?”

“With all due respect, she’s a police officer. She should expect us to be on her case if she screws up.”

“And tell me, DS Arnott, what are the regs on discussing details of our inquiries in public?”

Rolling his eyes so hard his head hit the headrest, Steve raised his voice. “I didn’t say anything classified!”

“That’s neither here nor there!” Hastings responded, matching Steve’s volume. “She has cause to file a complaint now, and don’t think she won’t! If you’re not upholding the professional standards expected—”

“Oh that’s rich coming from you!”

Mouth open in disbelief, Hastings twitched as though he couldn’t take the accusation in. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Pursing his lips, Steve used every ounce of his willpower to stop. Now was not the time to bring up the superintendent’s indiscretions—Masonic connections, persistently dodgy finances, suspicious private life—and if he had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting promoted, he had to control himself. He felt claustrophobic trapped in the car, both of them frustrated by the case and an unresolved argument, but he wouldn’t rise to it. If one of them had to erupt, it wouldn’t be him.

They’d passed headquarters a while back and, likely unintentionally, would soon pass the end of Steve’s road.

“Let me out here please,” Steve asked, unbuckling his seat belt to prove he was serious.

“I don’t think so!” Hastings snapped. “I’m not finished with you yet!”

Steve glared through the window. “Well, I’m finished with this conversation. Let’s continue it when we’re both calmer.” Firmer this time, he repeated his request. “Let me out, please.”

Steve’s hand on the door handle prompted Hastings to slow down whether he wanted to or not, giving an opportunity to open it.

“Don’t you dare!” Hastings slammed on the brake. Clearly, he didn’t want his passenger leaving, but Steve knew he wouldn’t have him exit a moving vehicle either.

Getting out when the car stopped and ignoring his boss’ fury, Steve slammed the door and hastened towards his house. The car followed, so he picked up the pace, fast approaching his front door. Once inside, he could shut the stress out, sleep on it, and deal with it in the morning. That was wiser.

After parking up untidily, tyres scraping the kerb, Hastings sprinted across the road behind him.

“Sir, _please_ ,” Steve begged, turning his key. The please meant many things: please don’t start an argument on my doorstep, please don’t keep on at me, please go back to the office, and, perhaps, please let me cool off so I can apologise when I see sense.

He expected Hastings to back down once the door opened, or at least give him a telling off under his breath before giving up for the night. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of his jacket and pulled him back so sharply he almost fell off the doorstep.

“Don’t walk away from me again, fella.”

Everything, from Hastings’ tone to the familiar, hot feeling of being manhandled, returned Steve to the earlier moment in the office. Dizzying expectation rendered him useless as he let Hastings manipulate him. Robbed of his voice, all he could do was wait and see what happened next.

Without grace and giving no thought to Steve’s comfort, Hastings pushed him through the door and shoved his back against the wall.

“I won’t argue with you in public,” he breathed, towering in the doorway. He didn’t apologise for his heavy-handedness nor his intrusion. He didn’t even look sorry for it.

Steve knew neither of them would back down at this point. They both saw things through to the bitter end; whoever had the last word would triumph. Screw the respect owed to Hastings, the arrogant bastard. Steve was right and he was wrong. The game was on.

He tried to sound angry—as angry as he rightly should have been, pinned to a wall in his own house—but the difficulty in catching his breath made it impossible. It was far too exciting to rile the gaffer up, to see who’d leave with their pride the least dented. “I won’t argue with you in my own home, sir, so I’d give up now if I were you.”

Hastings swallowed hard, similarly out of breath. Then, with the most ominous tone Steve had ever heard, he whispered, “You little brat.”

The mood shifted suddenly. Gazes locked and tensions high, the atmosphere reached an altitude unsolvable by conversation, or even apology. They’d arrived at the apex and Steve was devilishly curious which way they’d fall: on one side was the warm, familiar security of his home, full of possibilities; on the other, the dark, unforgiving street. The choices were battling this out or walking away, and they were too proud for the latter. Hastings, on the summit with him, still had him by his jacket. They both wanted the same thing and, for the first time, Steve wasn’t sure it was merely to win the argument.

His earlier epiphany returned, lightning-fast — desiring the boss’ physical attention wasn’t an entirely new sensation and yet, was no less exciting for it. Something clicked.

Reaching out a cautious hand, Steve brushed a fingertip over Hastings’ hip, beneath his long, open coat. They looked down at it together, watching it slide through the belt loop of his force-issue trousers. Steve didn’t pull him closer, but the gesture alone was suggestive enough. It was reckless, impulsive, and it was all Steve wanted.

Hastings stroked his thumb against Steve’s jaw, staring as it grazed his bottom lip with intense interest. His expression was that of a man who’d never considered this before but, like Steve, wasn’t opposed to it either. Neither of them could resist thinking this through, considering all possible outcomes, but they didn’t have all night — this happened, now, or it didn’t happen ever.

“Well, sir,” Steve dared, “what’ll it be?” The implication was obvious: turn away and get back in your car or close the door and see where this goes. If they stood on this peak any longer, they’d freeze.

Impatient after a matter of seconds, Steve decided for them. Kicking the door closed, he peered up at the other man, a grin creeping across his lips.

Hastings’ unmoving stare could have melted ice. Nervous energy thrummed beneath his calm exterior, discernible only by his hand shuddering against Steve’s jaw.

Seemed it happened now.

The kiss was punishingly hard, with all the fervour of two men starved of intimacy their entire lives, only just now learning how good it felt. Every movement had a sense of urgency, Hastings as eager as Steve to fight it out. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a flurry of tongue and teeth, hands grabbing every available lock of hair and inch of skin.

Hastings pressed against Steve, holding him in place with his weight. And Steve let him, pleasantly surprised by his sheer hunger for him. This was the most exciting kiss of his life, enough that his cock already throbbed, at its hardest. It left him with no choice but arching forwards, if only to ease the ache. Noticing, Hastings grabbed it, triggering a wince and a sharp gasp from Steve. With something akin to a growl, he rubbed him through his trousers, careless in his technique, panting into Steve’s temple. Steve tipped his head back and went with it.

“Where?” Hastings breathed, kneading at Steve’s scalp.

Their mouths crashed together again at the suggestion, wet, open and ravenous.

“Upstairs. First right.”

Once the bedroom door closed, Steve took control for a moment. Taking the dominant role wasn’t his usual strategy—he preferred being at his partner’s mercy—but he knew the gaffer enough to foresee him backing out at this point and desperately didn’t want that. To convince him otherwise, he’d show him what he’d be missing.

Pushed back mid-kiss, Hastings sat at the foot of the bed. He watched, wide-eyed, whilst Steve whipped off his tie and jacket before clambering onto his lap, straddling his thighs.

Steve kissed him again, satisfied by the hands gripping his waist, lightly but not without desire. The room’s privacy allowed more security for voicing their enjoyment; what was mere scuffling and panting in the hallway became a mixture of low, bitten-back groans and wet lips, offset by the bed’s gentle creaking.

As Hastings’ erection pressed flush to Steve’s groin, a bolt of excitement ascended his spine, forcing out a gasp. He couldn’t help grinding down against it, delighting in the similarly shocked sound it drew from the other man. It had been too long since he’d been fucked and, if that’s what was happening tonight, Hastings had the supply to meet the demand.

“We shouldn’t,” Hastings whispered.

There it was, doubt creeping in, a pollutant to what could potentially become the most luminous pleasure. Despite the insurmountable evidence of why they should absolutely do this—a release of their frustrations for one, the enjoyment another—it was in their nature to second-guess everything, pinpoint potential issues arising from a moment of intoxicating spontaneity. Hastings was old-school; separating sex from love wasn’t in his nature. Yet, they’d come this far.

“We should,” Steve corrected, sucking Hastings’ bottom lip.

“God.” He gritted his teeth, hissing under his breath. “But—”

“Just this once, sir.”

Apparently, that stifled Hastings’ concerns. It proved Steve didn’t want more from this, had no expectations. ‘Just once’ warned to make the most of this while they could, as it might not be an offer on the table again. Maybe it would, but the reassurance alone was enough.

Reaching down, Steve palmed the impressive bulge between Hastings’ spread thighs. He was big, but that was no surprise if you took the rest of him into account. The thought of it, hot and heavy and splitting him, had Steve whimpering — he couldn’t care less how needy he appeared because he _was_.

Sliding Hastings’ coat over his shoulders and unclipping his tie, Steve whispered, “Ever fucked a guy before, sir?”

Such a question, deeply personal and obscene in nature, had Hastings’ grip tighten on his waist. He didn’t answer, which was to be expected, but the punishing bite Steve’s bottom lip got for asking made him want to again. It also triggered a tiny movement in Hastings’ hips—a bucking up between parted thighs—that left his head spinning.

“Don’t think we’re following regs right now, do you?” Steve chuckled. Gripping Hastings’ cock through his trousers again, he squeezed it, watching his eyes roll back in reaction. “Where do you want me, sir?”

Sliding both hands into Steve’s hair, Hastings kissed him fiercely. This reaction, void of tenderness, reminded him this was a punishment — he was still mad at him. Steve had behaved like a brat who needed teaching a lesson. The sex would be unforgiving too, then, Steve could hope. He’d seen both sides of Ted Hastings: a soft, considerate man who’d do anything for his team, and a merciless one who took no prisoners. Who knew which he’d be once he was inside him?

Getting to his feet, Steve unbuckled his trousers hastily, eyeing Hastings up as he did. They were both breathless, devouring the other with hungry gazes and twitching with anticipation. Ungracefully, Steve toed off his shoes and stepped free of his trousers and boxers, smirking when the gaffer looked away. He wanted him to look, found something unspeakably arousing about being the object of his indecent desire. Pushing fingers into his silver hair, he turned his head to face him.

Their eyes locked as Steve sank to his knees, settling comfortably between Hastings’ thighs. Hastings placed a hand on his shoulder whilst he unzipped him, freeing his erection through his fly until it stood flush and tall from its bed of mousy hair and pressed trousers. With the gentlest pressure, Steve brushed his thumb over the head, circling the wetness beaded there. Hastings’ hips jerked and Steve smiled.

Bowing his head, lips hovering just above the tip, he asked, “May I?”

“Y-yeah,” Hastings answered, the permission trembling on his tongue. His hand shook also, bracing Steve’s nape. When Steve took him into his mouth he dug his fingernails in and choked out, “That’s it.”

It had been a long while since Steve tasted another man’s cock. There really was nothing like it. Hastings’ erection scorched his tongue, a red-hot mouthful that left his hair standing on end. Once it grazed the back of his throat, he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, weakening at the scent of Hastings’ crotch: masculine, intimate, and intensely arousing. God, he needed him to fuck him, and soon.

Steve used the opportunity to show off, lapping and sucking and losing himself in the gaffer’s harsh panting and even harsher grabbing at his scalp and shoulders. Glancing up, he saw his head tipped back, chest rising and falling sharply beneath his shirt, still buttoned to the top. Such a view made him impatient, desperate for his own selfish pleasure. It was his turn now.

Sitting up, he forced Hastings to face him again. He hoped he looked suitably fuckable: swollen-lipped, red-faced and wide-eyed. That would get his full attention.

“Where’d you want me then?” he asked, for the second time. Taking hold of Hastings’ cock again, he circled the saliva-wet shaft with his fingers, biting his lip as it pulsed in his fist. Foreplay was over; this prolonging was hard to bear.

Hastings went to reply, but couldn’t find any words. Speechless, he merely stared numbly, a hand bracing Steve’s cheek.

Steve would take control once more then, if he must. Climbing onto the bed, he enjoyed the fascination on Hastings’ face as he turned to watch him. Arse lewdly on display, he rifled through his bedside drawer and retrieved the lube. It hadn’t seen much action recently, unless fingering yourself counted (and he didn’t think it did). After flipping the cap and pouring a generous puddle onto his palm, he grasped Hastings’ cock again.

“God Steve,” he breathed, biting his lip whilst the liquid smeared from the root to the tip of his straining erection. “I— I don’t know what I’m doing with— _ah!_ ”—Steve cupped the warm handful of his balls momentarily, making sure he was sufficiently wet—“all this.”

“You’ll pick it up, sir.”

Tugging Hastings by his shirt collar, Steve turned him on the bed, until he had one leg knelt on the edge, the other planted on the floor. Getting onto all fours, he positioned himself in front of him, offering himself for the taking. He took in Hastings’ expression as he peered over his shoulder. Besides his obvious arousal—protruding indecently from the gap in his fly—he looked nervous.

Painfully, there was more waiting. Hastings hesitated, gawking at the sight before him as though he couldn’t take it in.

“Don’t make me beg,” Steve said, before pressing his face into the duvet. If Hastings backed out now, neither of them would ever live it down.

At long last, Hastings’ hand brushed Steve’s bare hip with a curious pressure. Tentative fingertips slid beneath the strip of shirt poking out from his waistcoat, ghosting over the curve of his arse. Steve pushed back into the palm, moaning with agonising anticipation. His cock twitched, hanging flush and rigid between his legs while he waited impatiently to be filled.

“ _Please_ , sir,” Steve whined, shuffling back until he felt the warm prod of the other man’s cock against his backside.

A quick study, Hastings picked up the bottle. Steve heard the cap open moments before a cool trickle between his buttocks made him choke out an obscenely needy sound. It wasn’t entirely necessary for a second application, but Hastings wouldn’t want to hurt him.

“Fuck,” Steve groaned, feeling the gaffer’s thumb part him roughly.

Pressing the pad against Steve’s pucker, he massaged the lube in. His hands still trembled, but he’d come this far, surely he wouldn’t turn back now.

Before Steve could ready himself, the iron-hot head of Hastings’ cock pressed against his hole. The blunt, wet tip breached him shallowly, that familiar deep ache warming his bones while his body stretched in accommodation. Realising he was holding his breath, he remembered to breathe. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, really feeling it.

Hastings held him in place and pushed in a little further. His panted breaths had become so hoarse they were almost ragged. Under his breath, he groaned “Mother of God.”

Grabbing fistfuls of duvet, Steve’s eyes rolled back at the tease. Most guys shoved straight in—and to be fair, they’d usually spent considerable time fingering him open first—but Hastings took his time with it. His utter _need_ to be fucked doubled the longer he was made to wait for the next delicious inch. Then there it was, gliding the rest of the way in with such ease it stole the breath from the both of them.

Buried to the hilt, Hastings whispered, voice weak, “I— I need a moment, son.”

Steve had already waited a lifetime of moments. The throbbing pleasure of being totally and completely filled was one he’d sorely missed and he couldn’t stop himself from moving. Arching his hips down, he rocked forwards on his knees, then back onto Hastings’ cock, impaling himself again.

“Stubborn gobshite,” Hastings hissed, taking hold of Steve by his waistcoat and tugging him back forcefully so he couldn’t do it again.

No longer hesitating, nor allowing Steve to have control, he bucked his hips and began fucking him with small, sharp thrusts so intense light burst behind his eyelids. Steve’s disobedience was why they were doing this after all. Understandably, it spurred him to action.

Hastings drove oh-so-deep as he picked up the pace. His thrusts, fast, punishing, and unrelenting, forced sobs from Steve’s throat he could only smile through, for this was it! — this was what he wanted! The sheer bliss of being fucked, and _properly_ , had his eyes watering.

Changing the angle, Hastings grazed that deep, hidden place inside Steve, forcing him to wail in a bittersweet blend of ecstasy and torment.

“Sir!” he gasped, half in shock, half in pure delight. “Fucking hell, _sir_! Yes! God, yes!” He was too far gone to feel ashamed of his lustful enjoyment. If anything, he hoped it’d get him fucked harder.

It worked, for a second later Hastings grabbed a handful of Steve’s hair—his other hand clasping his hip with bruising strength—and tugged his head back with a sharp jerk. Holding him there, unable to struggle free, he pounded into him with a merciless force, groaning loud with every push.

Reaching between his legs in desperation, Steve took hold of himself, near his end already. He let Hastings’ pace direct his hand, cock rocking back and forth into it with his rhythm.

Clambering onto the bed, both knees planted behind Steve, Hastings bent over him. “Almost there,” he breathed, pressing his face into Steve’s nape and panting fiercely. Slowing the pace, he rolled his hips, still buried deep.

“Same.”

“Where should I...” He couldn’t finish the question. Perhaps it was too lewd for him, despite being balls-deep in his DS that very moment.

“God inside me!” Steve pleaded, the words slurring into one.

Shuffling back, he seated himself on Hastings’ lap, waistcoat-silk flush to his chest as he let his weight go. It was the deepest Hastings had gotten so far and it stunned them both into a state of silent, over-stimulated shock. Writhing through the sudden intensity of it, Steve scrabbled over his shoulder, grabbing a handful of Hastings’ hair as he climaxed and holding tight. He sobbed out in blissful surprise, long, thick spurts wetting his stomach.

Wrapping both arms around Steve’s waist, Hastings held him in place, bucking up with one final thrust. He buried his face in the crook of his shoulder, stifling the vulnerable sound of his orgasm by biting down, hard. Steve knew though. He felt the hot rush of it spill deep inside him, filling him until he overflowed. Hastings was in charge at that moment, truly, and Steve gladly submitted to the irresistible sensation of being disciplined, and of being his subordinate.

Exhausted, Steve’s body gave in. It was as if he’d only stayed in one piece because Hastings held him together. “Sir,” he whimpered, letting his head fall back onto the gaffer’s shoulder, “that was...” There were no words to describe it. It was exactly what he needed and, he hoped, what Hastings needed too.

The tension of their arguments over the course of the evening—still present in the back of Steve’s mind—disappeared the moment Hastings pressed his warm lips to his slack mouth and kissed him with more tenderness than he’d shown him so far. His hands were all over him, caressing aching limbs and tired muscles, brushing over fabric, waistcoat buttons and warm, bare skin. Despite his exhaustion, Steve returned the affection, kneading the gaffer’s scalp and lightly sucking his tongue. It was his apology, and Hastings’ forgiveness — the balance restored.

Breaking the kiss to catch his breath, Steve stroked a hand through Hastings’ hair as if to put it back into place. The sight of him, ruffled and pink-cheeked, was as unforgettable as it was remarkable.

“Bathroom’s across the hall if you want a shower,” he said quietly, heart still pounding in his chest.

Hastings looked the slightest bit hurt. “Sending me on my way already?”

“Course not.”

Shedding the rest of his clothes, Steve climbed under the covers and let out a long breath. Lying down felt incredible and his whole body seemed to sigh with the relief of it. It had been a long day. Peering up at Hastings, still sitting lost on the end of the bed, he said “Stay, if you’d like,” hoping he would.

Glancing at the clock, Hastings seemed to regain his senses. Raising an eyebrow, he got to his feet. “Thanks but, I better be off.” As he’d barely undressed for the occasion it didn’t take a lot for him to look the same as he did outside the pub: immaculate. The only thing missing was his tie, which he’d balled up and slid in his pocket.

Steve wanted to encourage him to stay again, hopeful they’d cuddle up and fall asleep together, but that wasn’t what this was. Instead, he did what was overdue: apologised for his behaviour at the office, and the pub.

After a moment’s consideration, Hastings nodded.

“Sleep well,” he said, a content expression on his face that left Steve without a care in the world. Despite the lapse, nothing had changed between them. Hastings would leave this house Steve’s boss and Steve would return to work the next day, ready to stand to his attention.

“You too,” Steve mumbled, hooking an arm under his pillow.

Once he heard the front door close, he was asleep in less than a minute.


	4. Chapter four

Opening his eyes to the grating blare of his phone alarm somewhere in the room, Steve had forgotten, briefly, about the night before. The ache in his limbs when he sat up was all the reminder he needed. 

Arm hanging off the end of the bed, he rifled through the pockets of his discarded clothes for his phone, finally switching off the alarm once he found it. 

His emails were nothing exciting, but one caught his eye. It was from Kate, sent not long after his rant at The Duke of York. As always, her message was short and sweet.

_ Nick Huntley alibi sound?  
_ _ Sent from my iPhone _

Over breakfast—scrambled eggs on toast and the biggest black coffee his cafetiere offered—he pondered Kate’s four-word question while BBC Breakfast hummed in the background. The compellability of a spouse in a case like this made any alibi useless, but Nick Huntley’s edginess at the mere mention of his wife had never sat right with him. Perhaps Roz said something damning at the pub. The only way to find out was talking to the guy. 

After a soothing shower, dressed in a fresh three-piece, he decided to make a stop at Nick’s work before visiting the office. The sooner he riled the bloke up the better, and it wouldn’t hurt to bring the others some good news first thing in the morning. He might even pick up some coffees for them on the way too. 

With a spring in his step, he left the house, pocketbook at the ready and mind set on the task at hand. Then, he remembered.  _ Fuck _ ! 

Kate answered after one ring. “What’s up?” 

“I uh, don’t suppose you’re on your way in?”

“Just getting in the car. Why?” 

“Couldn’t pick me up could you? Left my car at the pub last night.” 

“Didn’t think you stayed long enough for a drink!” Kate laughed. “I dropped by the office with a curry after I left but you weren’t there.”

“Sorry. Fancied a walk home.” Going back inside, he passed the patch of wall where the previous evening turned from one thing to another and pursed his lips. “We can do curry tonight though, if you’re not sick of it.”

“Suppose I can forgive you, if you’re paying. Pick you up in ten?”

“Great. Thanks Kate.” 

Steve couldn’t help but smile. Today would be a good one, only it’d start a little later. 


End file.
